


Popstars

by Calico



Category: Popslash
Genre: Hatesex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-14
Updated: 2004-11-14
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calico/pseuds/Calico
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unearthed and uploaded for Clarkward: popstar-based blowjob porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Popstars

"And there's Nick Carter at number three," chirps Nick's headphones, fading out halfway through the last verse and pounding painfully into _All The Things She Said_ , "and before that, Eminem, who's spent the week directly underneath him at number four. Now on to those scandalous schoolgirls--"

It's a drone, but it's keeping his attention away from the fact that he's at an industry event and Justin's around here somewhere and hasn't got in touch, and the fact that Aaron is demanding a signed copy of _Without Me_ and looks set not to shut up until Nick's gotten hold of one.

The performance was fun, at least, but since then? Nick's not having a good night.

Though it's not like he needs Justin to call, no.

Nick's happy to call Justin.

Later. Maybe a lot later.

Last time they met up, there were onlookers and bodyguards and Lance and JC, and Nick had behaved, smiling for the camera instead of for Justin.

Maybe post-drinks later, actually. Could be wise.

"--Running through my head," TATU pant, " _running through my head_ ," and Nick yanks out his headphones and glares around the empty corridor. He's supposed to be looking for Eminem's room. He's even holding the damn CD, stripped of cellophane. He _wants_ to be interrupted by the buzz of his phone - but he's supposed to be looking for Eminem's room, because that's what good big brothers do.

Fine.

The phone still hasn't rung five minutes later, by which point he's been standing in front of Eminem's door for about two-hundred seconds and has just started worrying about CCTV. Get your _shit_ together, Carter. C'mon. Jesus.

It's not locked. He pushes in and asks cheerfully, "You enjoy your week directly underneath me?" and Eminem's head slams up, his mouth going cold and hard.

Nick feels something inside him relax.

"What the fuck?" Eminem demands, getting warily to his feet, abandoning a half-tidied pack of playing cards by an unopened Carling six-pack on a table.

Nick shrugs, leaning on the doorjamb, feeling his eyes all bright. Bring it on. "Your week underneath me?" he says innocently, and nods encouragingly. "You know. In the UK."

Eminem stares at him for a full three seconds, before shaking his head in disgust, and laughing, a sound of pure contempt. "What crack are you _on_?"

Caught him off-guard and alone, Nick thinks, stepping into the room, letting the door shut behind him. Okay. This might be fun after all. He makes his eyes huge. "Last week!"

"What the _hell_ are you talking ab--"

"You forgot your week directly underneath me already? I'm hurt--" and Eminem's got him by the throat, eyes slitted, shoving him against the wall.

"You shut the fuck up already," he orders, deliciously bewildered, scrappy fingernails grating into the smooth skin beneath Nick's jaw. "What the fuck are you on, you freakin' pussy _punk_?"

Oops? Nick thinks mirthlessly, tense now, feeling his own eyes narrow, his hand lifting swift-deliberately and fisting the material at the back of Eminem's neck. Eminem doesn't flinch, and Nick's thinking about the marks he might be left with and the others he sorta wants to collect. This is what he needs, this evening, yeah. Clear his head.

He jerks the back of Eminem's collar back hard, and Eminem makes a sharp strangled noise, outrage and surprise as Nick's other hand snatches his wrist-- and maybe he hadn't noticed Nick's broader these days, broader and taller, that for all Eminem's got the rep of being a wiry fucker there's not much that argues with pure dense _strength_.

"Get your fucking hands off me," Eminem breathes, and Nick doesn't know if it sounds soft because the hem of his top's jammed against his voicebox or because Eminem's gone genuinely sinister right now. His eyes are certainly no clue.

"Touchy," Nick says mildly, letting him go all at once, and Eminem backs up a step and glares at him, singsong gaze all over him like heat.

He didn't expect this, didn't think Eminem would give him more than the finger, once, as he ambled out of sight. Didn't think he'd be so deliciously volatile in real life.

Nick thinks, a moment later, that Eminem would probably object violently to being thought of as an ambler.

"I don't like being paid that sorta attention," Eminem's saying, pointedly, and Nick's brain veers sharply, and suddenly he's wondering what it'd be like to pay him that sorta attention, to pay him slow velvety pulls and maybe get that lower lip against his cock.

"You're a walkin' invitation," Nick says, and only realises when Eminem's eyes flash with frost that it's highly likely they've not jumped to the same page.

"You _fucking_ with me?" Eminem demands, stalking closer, getting in Nick's face, and Nick can taste danger when he breathes, knows that smell, knows he's probably better off backing away right now. AJ taught him to fight, and he can probably match this guy, but he's not entirely confident of switchblades.

"Chill out." He keeps his voice curt, lazy. No thrill of fear here, no sir. No heat in the gut, definitely no syllables like _an-ti-ci-pa-tion_ patting through his brain.

Eminem stares at him for a long moment, long enough for Nick to notice the way the air's thrumming like the space above a hot stove, and then Eminem laughs. "Go fuck your brother," he drawls, then bites his lip like guilt, which looks incredibly ridiculous on a face trained to scowl. Then he adds, "Oh wait, didn't I already do that tonight?" and Nick's fist's shoving into Eminem's stomach without a thought.

 _Mistake_ , he thinks, in some sort of strange distant place where he's not setting about instinctively to pulp this guy into next week. He registers a whiplash crack as Eminem slams right back against him-- and then the heels of his hands are driving against Eminem's shoulders, and Eminem's suddenly panting and four feet away.

"Now who's touchy," Eminem drawls, and Nick feels his lip curl. Catch _him_ asking for a signature tonight.

"Fuck off."

"Yeah, you had somewhere to be," Eminem agrees, voice indolent and mean, and Nick gets it, yeah, and it's not like AJ's never joked that your brother, man, if he were a few years older I could _do_ something with that-- but then AJ's not been courting controversy for the last three years, isn't possibly rawly twisted right through.

And for chrissakes, AJ's never been laughing like he wants to sting. "I could put it off, if you got something you got to say to me," Nick says, setting his shoulders.

Eminem doesn't blink. "Man, you don't learn. Get out my face."

"I'm the one against the wall," Nick says, and that's true, but it hasn't felt like a disadvantage before.

Isn't, actually, a disadvantage now, unless you count not being able to bar Eminem's way if he tries to leave. And since it's his room - well.

"You want me out your face, go," Nick suggests, cold, and this time he's testing the air, not even surprised by the way he's hoping Eminem won't leave. The air's pretty thick, pretty blue, and the undercurrent's still free-flowing. Nick could _do_ with this tonight.

"It's my turf, you asshole," Eminem says, and Nick has to suppress a smile. Justin's said that before.

"Maybe I like it here."

Eminem laughs nastily. "Yeah, I know what you'd _like_ ," he says, giving the crotch of his baggy pants a quick, suggestive squeeze that finds the bulk within, and Nick lets himself stare openly.

He enjoys the moment Eminem freezes, face going absolutely still.

Eminem's hand drops to his thigh. "No way," he mutters, eyes narrower than they've been all night, "you're fucking with me," and Nick feels it hum inside.

He lets a tiny edge of his smile come to the surface. "What d'ya think?"

"I think you're a fucking faggot," Eminem breathes, and it means, Nick notices, _nothing_ from him, just another dictionary definition. "You're _sick_."

"You're not leaving."

"I'm not giving ground to a-- no way," Eminem says, and he's scoffing but maybe Nick should've been a lion tamer, because he's beginning to feel completely fucking _high_. If Eminem tells anyone, people will just nod and smile. There there, dear. Of _course_ he did. Those boyband fags, honestly.

There's power in that.

There'd be more power in getting him on his knees.

"Well, neither am I," Nick says, pleasantly, and Eminem stares at him for a vacant moment before getting it, before he's going for his pocket like a snake biting and there's a flashsnap of metal as Nick grabs his wrist out the air.

"Don't you fucking insult me," Eminem's hissing, and Nick twists his arm hard and the knife clatters at their feet.

"Don't fucking threaten me," Nick retorts genially, kicking the blade to skitter into the corner, and it's instinct to grab Eminem's other hand, to hold his fists clear of his skin.

It tugs Eminem against him, that hard - wiry - body frozen in indignant lines. "I'm gonna slay you," Eminem says, and that makes Nick laugh. C'mon, sweetie. We're popstars.

"I better not let go of you, then," he settles for saying, trying to feel if Eminem's hard without making it obvious, "if my safety's in question."

Eminem twists viciously, trapped bleached weasel with septic incisors, and Nick holds his breath and grits his teeth and makes damn sure that he doesn't give an inch of ground. He keeps his eyes on Eminem's face, the angry strain in his jaw, the girlish pink of his mouth half open. He imagines ducking and catching at Eminem's mouth with his tongue, imagines tasting the curses-- and his cock, yeah, his cock knows it's pretty intensely interested by now.

Only way to get a guy like this is to make it seem like his idea, though, and it's kinda late for that. Nick braces himself to shove and let go, tries to think of a decent last retort to cover his exit. The door's not locked - he can just bolt, if necessary. Eminem's gaze is like warm pressure everywhere. Okay, Nick thinks, catching his breath. He'll get out of here and jerk off and then call Justin ostensibly to gossip about it-- and then Eminem's growling and wrenching their hands down to their sides, and his body sways direct against Nick's from chest to thigh.

"What the fuck," Eminem blurts, threatening, but for all he's wearing baggy pants Nick can still feel firmness in all the right places, and _oh_. This is new and interesting and jesus, pretty hot, and all former plans go out the window; he lets go of Eminem's wrists to secure his hips instead. Instinctive. "Hey--"

"Hey," Nick agrees, making it warm and low, and Eminem makes a short stark outraged noise as Nick nudges them together, his cock meeting the bulge in Eminem's pants in a slow, delicious slide.

"Get the hell off of me," Eminem whispers, glancing urgently at the door, and Nick crooks his leg around the back of Eminem's knee and then turns, deliberately, until Eminem's the one pressed against the wall. He can reach the door now, twist the lock with a hard pass of his hand, and it's all the more satisfying to hear it click when it's in conjunction with crushing a groan out of Eminem's taut, warm body.

"It's okay," Nick says, letting his voice slip down the register until it's a lot like he's talking to a startled girl. Or Justin. "C'mon, we just - then you give me the CD and we can get back out there, and I'm sure not tellin' anyone--"

"Sick," Eminem mutters, and his hands are in Nick's shirt, and Nick's eyes fall half-closed when Eminem uses those hips of his to _grind_. Nick wonders if he's done this before, decides he hasn't because the idea he's the first is just so cool, and he pushes his hands under the cotton beneath his sweatshirt and rubs his fingertips over the warm skin beneath. He decides Eminem will probably slug him if he starts actively thinking about Justin.

Eminem's got his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the wall, and he scowls prettily when Nick slides one hand down between them and gropes him through his jeans. His mouth opens a little, too, and his breath comes like little puffs of ash, soft and dry. Nick looks at the pale slant of neck, the pulse panicking in there, wants to press his mouth to it but would that get him thrown out? Although, hey, he's got the guy's dick against his hand; can't see much getting him thrown out at this stage.

It'd be good to feel skin, though, and he wants to see Eminem's face when he does it. Kiss him after, if ever. He squeezes carefully, working his way up, finding his jeans' button, nudging it open with his thumb. Eminem swallows, tendons coming visible in his throat. His hips can't keep quite still, but they're trying, and the idea of that, oh, that's pretty fucking hot.

Nick slips his fingers in under the notch of the zipper and guides it down like that, safe, spreading his knuckles so Eminem's cock fits between them. Still the underwear, but that's soft too, and very fine, and Nick thinks mildly that they've got a wicked thread-count in the ghetto. The heat eases through, blushing his fingers, and Eminem's still trying to hold his hips motionless, still not quite succeeding.

First time Nick did this, Justin was in charge - before Justin got serious with JC, before he'd gotten serious with anyone. Justin was wild, and had something to prove, and Nick saw stars the first time, and tasted them every night after. Before, Nick hadn't even wondered if JC's eyeliner was indicative of anything else. _That_ clueless.

"You want me to...?" Nick asks, playing his fingers against the hot material of Eminem's underwear and he thinks he might be pushing it, but nowadays that's his style.

Eminem makes a noise in his throat that sounds pretty damn discontented.

Nick smiles, ducking his head so Eminem won't see - he figures he can get away with a lot, but being genuinely mocked simply ain't sexy.

"C'mon," Nick mutters, "ask me," rubbing the backs of his knuckles in slow, taunting slides, "I mean, I don't want you denying it la--"

"For chrissakes-- _do it_ , you fucking piece of shit," Eminem says, voice cracking, and it's like he's hardwired or something, and that's about as interesting as Eminem's gonna get.

Nick contents himself with a soft, "Nice," and figures he'd better stop teasing.

He dips one hand inside to steady the situation while the other works the waistband down to Eminem's thighs. There's a moment where he can almost hearing the universe updating its records, a moment of no breath. And it's never gonna lose its charm, Nick thinks dizzily, that first moment holding another guy's cock in his hand. The heat and the incredibly hard softness - Nick's never felt silk exactly like it, but it's close, taut and slightly damp - filling his hand. Overfilling. Incredible.

He starts stroking, enjoys that hitch of breath that Eminem's maybe still trying to hide. Yeah, baby, you're not enjoying this at all. He thinks about pressing his own cock alongside, stroking them together, feeling the pulse flicker between then-- but there's still the fear that Eminem will bolt, and-- and.

He gets a flash of Justin, that first time, on his knees at Nick's feet, blowing him and then standing and kissing him, salt thick in his mouth, cock gleefully conspicuous against Nick's thigh. Justin's fingers had eased inside him during the kiss, not the blowjob, and Justin had said later, _C'mon, it wasn't like you weren't gonna notice and then let me anyway. That only happens in porn_.

Nick's never seen porn like that, but he also figures Eminem's not gonna bolt. He's towering over the guy and they're both panting; the chances that Eminem's been secretly lusting after a domineering _woman_ of his build are pretty damn thin.

Neat.

He pushes them a little firmer against the wall, concentrating on rubbing his thumb against the sweet inch just below the head of Eminem's cock, and it follows to lick his neck when he gasps, so he lets that happen as well. Eminem tastes pretty generic, but it's salt and Nick's craving now. He works his mouth along Eminem's jaw, kids himself that he can feel the pulse against his lips.

Eminem curses against his cheek, soft, "Fuck, you," and cuts off, and Nick wonders if that was going to be a compliment; he'd talked a lot to God, his own first time, because Justin's mouth put such things in mind.

Eminem's mouth conjures something else entirely; he's the twenty-third-fallen-archangel, the guy that polishes Lucifer's boots, all resentful spiteful mutters and sulphur-stained wings. Nick speeds his hand up a little and feels a tiny flutter of surprise when Eminem's first kiss tastes perfectly, sleekly human.

Nick catches himself before he can make a pleased noise; no need to let _anybody_ know how hot this makes him feel. It's not a good kiss, but it's desperate on Eminem's side, gnawing and difficult and undeniably sexy, making Nick clutch and crush closer and burn inside. It's like a coming-out kiss, and Nick wonders if this is what he felt like to Justin, a trembling maelstrom of unbalanced anger and stunned groping hands. Maybe. He finds himself smiling against Eminem's teeth, sucking on his tongue and jerking his fist until he feels Eminem begin to slide down the wall. In a weird way, Nick feels like he's returning a favour to the universe.

Justin had asked him things, impatient - knocked on the closet door until it cracked open, then wriggled his way inside and screwed Nick against the metaphorical coat-hangers. Not a bad way to discover yourself, that golden mouth coaxing you to surrender, although Nick sometimes wonders what it'd have been like to discover it the slow way, noticing one inch of unattainable male skin at a time. The fear's nudged him a couple of times that maybe he wouldn't have noticed. Maybe he'd have meandered along, girl after girl, assuming the missing element from his celebrity relationships was privacy. Thank God for Justin.

Nick - getting his free hand across the back of Eminem's neck and tugging him down onto the floor and rolling so he's mostly on top, still kissing, letting go of Eminem's cock to anchor his own crotch there instead - has an inkling that Eminem's never going to thank anyone for _him_.

But what the hell.

He watches for the moment Eminem realises he's actually pinned to the floor now; he gets rewarded with a hiss, soft lips parting under Nick's tongue and spitting fury, and it's all too easy to lick deep, to align his hips and grind down deliberately, to turn the only path that Eminem can follow into supplication.

Good _boy_.

He supports himself on one hand and runs the other down Eminem's side, tilting his head measuredly and sucking Eminem's tongue, using his teeth and feeling Eminem twitch and plucking open certain buttons until he can slide his naked cock against Eminem's skin. Oh yeah, baby. Meet me.

Again, it takes a couple of seconds, and then Eminem tenses hard beneath him, making unwilling noises that drive Nick halfway mad. Nick gives him a couple of thrusts, back and forth, curtly and quickly, his belly a rigid mess of hot muscle as he orders his body not to just ride it out and come all over this pretty little rapper right fucking _now_.

Then Eminem's hips are rising to greet him, giving the friction back twice as hard, and Nick has to stop kissing him because his mouth's gone dry. Throat, he aims, and Eminem bares it for him, twisting and panting. He growls when Nick licks the base of his neck, and then louder when he bites down. Can't go lower because of the thick hoody barrier, so Nick contents himself with worrying up a mark to leave Eminem something to scowl about later; and now he's beyond the session that Justin gave him, far beyond.

Justin only marked Nick up when Nick _expressly_ asked him to.

"Ah, c'mon," Eminem mutters, and Nick has a curious snap-back-to-reality moment - _whoops, there goes gravity_ \- because it takes him a second to realise that Eminem's _not_ asking to be bruised by Nick's mouth, and instead is, ah, got it: asking to be sucked off. Eminem's fist is round Nick's beltloops at the back, and Eminem's other hand has curled round Nick's shoulders to urge him downwards, and Nick grins against Eminem's throat and imagines folding for him, and simply knows that that's not how this game will be played.

"Mm," he says, and licks a viper-soft trail up Eminem's throat, shivering when Eminem squirms. He catches at Eminem's lower lip with his teeth, tempted to leave a mark there too, then kneels back astride Eminem's hips, the root of his tingling cock nestled intimately in Eminem's pubic hair. He has a palm on the floor on either side of Eminem's head, supporting himself as he leans down to whisper in Eminem's ear: "Not a chance."

Eminem's cock flexes, and Nick's cock feels it and gives a quick rub in reply. Nick forces himself still, and Eminem takes a dragging breath and says, "Not a chance what?"

Nick's glad he can't see Eminem's face, because he'd sneer. Clueless, uh huh. "Right," he says instead, right against the shell of Eminem's ear, "yeah, okay. You want me to... go down... go down there?" with a little punctuating pulse of his hips.

Eminem makes an affirmative noise, squirming some more.

"Right," Nick agrees warmly, and pauses without finishing the breath. He can feel Eminem straining for his answer, and the power's like nothing else. He drops his voice even more. " _Not a chance_."

Eminem actually sort of bucks beneath him, a full-body pout. "No but, your fucking mouth, you gotta," he blurts, almost indignant, and it takes Nick a moment to rein in the near-overwhelming urge to laugh.

Then he realises it's very, very quiet. Nick glances down at the narrow margin between their chests, at incongruity of their clothes, the demand of their cocks hard and obscene against their stomachs, then looks back to Eminem's mouth. A plan forms.

"You suck me, I'll suck you," he says, and Eminem's hips tilt and grind up hard, and Nick groans in his throat.

"No fucking way," Eminem's saying, and Nick does laugh now, ducking his head, sucking the edge of Eminem's jaw.

"Thought you wanted my mouth--"

"Okay," Eminem says tightly, abruptly, "but you do me first," and Nick pretends to think about that, pretends he's not had this sort of conversation before.

"Yeah, but do you really want my dick in your mouth _after_ you've come?" he whispers, letting his cheek rub Eminem's jaw, stubble catching. "It's not fun anymore and you just wanna sleep and it's fucking dirty, doing this with me, and it's choking you and you've still gotta swallow..."

Eminem shudders, and Nick's not sure if it's the sentiment or his breath at that pale ear-- and furthermore, if it's the sentiment, whether it's heat or disgust. Such a _complex_ guy.

"I mean, your choice," he says, licks Eminem's ear, and Eminem makes an untidy noise in his throat.

"Same for you--"

"I like sucking guys, though," Nick smiles, and it's a moment of pure surrealism to hear himself say that to Marshal Mathers. "And y'know," he adds smoothly, tugging Eminem's earlobe with his teeth, relishing the surprise in his exhalation, "I've had practice. The skills I've got, it'll be worth your while."

Eminem wraps a leg round the back of Nick's knees and sort of jostles upwards, sending white flares through Nick's vision; and fuck, imagine it, _fucking_ the bastard, yeah. Imagine his legs round Nick's waist as Nick fucks into him, cock going deep and dragging out slow. Nick pushes back, letting some of his weight off his hands to really pin Eminem down, and then Eminem's growling something, something promising, and the next thing Nick knows he's on his back with his hips under Eminem's hands, flipped by some reserve strength hidden god knows where.

"F--" Nick says, and then clamps down hard because he's got no interest in bolstering the bastard's ego, and his palms are ringing so he pushes up on his elbows, staring down at where Eminem's crouched over him like a predator. Nick's mouth is drier than ever, staring at the blunt dark curve of his cock pointing at Eminem's stony face; he twitches his hips to make that sublime picture animated, feeling sweat rise on his forehead and under his arms.

So fucking hot, observing the disgusted alarm that Eminem's face can't conceal.

"Go on, then," Nick says, letting his voice sound as rusty as it wants, a husky gloating double-dare.

The glare Eminem gives him is pure venom, and then all at once, they're moving. Eminem wraps his fist hard round the base of Nick's cock, pressing curtly down and squeezing, and Nick knows it's a cautionary measure to keep the gag control on Eminem's side but whatever, man - it feels like fucking heaven. The tiny tremors going through Eminem's hand don't hurt. Eminem's ducks his head, not far enough, then adjusts his grip. _Better_ , that it's accidental.

Nick clamps his teeth about a moan, and settles for sneering. "Not just your hand..."

Eminem's glare sharpens three-fold, but he doesn't speak. He lowers his mouth haltingly towards the gleaming head of Nick's cock, scowling, until Nick can feel the oven-heat of every shallow breath wafting over him, making him squirm and grit his teeth. The seconds seem to drag until Nick's almost expecting a final diss or a freak-out or something, and then all of a sudden Eminem's lips are opening and the top of Nick's cock goes inside, and despite himself Nick's hips lift hard off the floor.

Eminem jerks his head back, snarling - "Fuck off, fucking queer" - and that's really too fucking hilarious to even point out.

"Um, sorry," Nick gasps, trying not to laugh, and wills his hips still long enough that Eminem can get back into thinking he's in control.

The mouth comes down again, light and damp, then opening, a sudden cap of liquid sunshine. Eminem's hand's grinding down tighter than ever, and Nick's breath comes in short jerks as he watches the softness of Eminem's lips move uncertainly around unfamiliar bulk. His brain can't quite cope with the idea that the head of his _cock_ is in _Eminem's_ mouth, and just keeps chanting soft curses to itself. There is a margin of about two inches between the top of Eminem's fist and the glorious wet sensation, and those two inches are _begging_ to be touched. Eminem's mouth retreats until just the head's inside, and his tongue darts over the top; Nick inhales sharply, staring.

Eminem's got his eyes closed, and he's frowning. Nick's cock twitches as he watches, and he feels a tiny dart of heat ease out the head and onto Eminem's tongue; Eminem's upper lip curls, his thumb digging in, and that just makes Nick twitch again. He's so fucking ready to just slam into him, to shove up and choke him, grab his head and drag him down--

Eminem presses down a little, a centimetre more slipping into his mouth, and then he backs off quickly and pants over the tip, mouth twisted, eyebrows drawn. His palm's getting damp on Nick's cock, and that's just, yeah, icing on the cake. Nick rocks his hips a little, and Eminem twitches, then ducks down again, opening his mouth loosely and sliding significantly more of Nick's cock inside.

Nick hisses, because this is wetter. It's wet and frustrating and so very, very mobile. Eminem's bobbing his head, swift and slick, his tongue curling on the way down and sweeping on the way up, no suction to speak of but _fuck_ , wet as hell. Slowly, it dawns on Nick that this is a porn blowjob, that it's Eminem's version of a ten-cent whore worshiping a celluloid ten-incher-- and the idea of that, of Eminem _thinking_ about what he's doing, almost makes Nick shake.

He catches himself gasping on every downstroke and fights to shut the hell up. He stares instead, finding it unutterably surreal to see the well-known line of his cock moving in and out of Eminem's mouth, clutched by Eminem's white-knuckled fist, wet and shining. Surreal and pretty much the hottest damn thing he'll see all week, yeah. The battle against making appreciative noises, as the head of his cock bumps off the back of Eminem's mouth and Eminem gulps just loud enough that Nick hears him, is more effort than it's worth.

"Fuck," Nick whispers, and there's energy revving in his hips, itching to fight against Eminem's restraining hand. He thinks dizzily, yeah, wait until he's off-guard, and then catches himself because dude, nasty, not cool.

 _So cool_ , murmurs the jagged, husky voice of his libido.

"Fuck," he says again, rocking his hips in circles to jimmy his cock deeper into Eminem's fist. The infinitesimal friction is making him feel like he's glowing, like he's one pulsing golden slab of hot muscled light. Eminem moves his head a little faster, wet noises snapping in Nick's ears, twisting his fist a little around Nick's cock, speeding up deliciously. It's not a pace, Nick thinks distractedly, that's really sustainable for more than a couple of minutes, for all it feels great. He wonders in a sudden gleeful surge if Eminem thinks he's going to come so soon, and forces down his body's arguments on not resisting.

This can't end here-- although, there's no harm in pretending it _might_.

Nick lets the volume of his breathing shimmy up, watching with half-closed eyes, soft-focusing the view of Eminem sliding Nick's cock faster in and out of his mouth until his head's bobbing at near-blurring speed. Eminem's hand is clenching and relaxing, now, a static sticky handjob, and every now and then his mouth bumps his fingers, and they're the moments when Nick has to grit his teeth to keep even a facade of control. They're also the moments where, _oh_.

 _Ohh_.

They are also the moments where Nick feels Eminem's cock pressing into his knee, an unmistakable grind through denim, and wait, Eminem's getting off on this? Hard enough to rub his cock against Nick Carter's jeans-clad leg, every time Nick's cock touches the place it could push through to get properly deep?

 _Fuck_ but that brings it to a whole new level.

Nick tries to concentrate, but his cock's tingling now, covering the inside of Eminem's mouth with slickness, another sizzle going through him with every fucking slide. Eminem's still not sucking, still not letting Nick move, and Nick's gotta admit that given those two caveats, this is turning out to be a pretty decent blowjob after all. And if Eminem's secretly enjoying it? _Ohh_.

Nick shudders with a jolt of rich mental eroticism, and pretends to come. He grunts and jerks his hips up, tossing his smile at the ceiling, getting another inch into Eminem's mouth before Eminem's jerking his head back frantically-- and then Eminem's wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and Nick watches a myriad of expressions flood over his face: blatant lust mixed with disgust and triumph, and then stricken realisation as he realises his hand's still wrapped around an undeniably hard dick.

Nick blinks a few times, letting his head fall right back, panting happily at his upside-down view of the door, and then he squirms and tips his head forwards again. "Why've you stopped?"

"W--Fuck off," Eminem says, his mouth a wet red blur. He takes a couple of ragged breaths, and licks his lips, and Nick smiles at him. "Fuck, Carter, how the hell long does this take you?"

Nick's smile widens, and he restrains the urge to seek out Eminem's cock with his knee, illustrate just how bored Eminem's seemed so far. "What, finishing me off?"

Eminem's glare is a dark, dangerous thing. "Yes."

"Maybe a whole lot longer, if we're doing it like this," Nick says casually, then shrugs as best as he can, propped like this on his elbows. "Though you could ask how to get me off faster, if you want."

"No fucking way."

Nick waves his hand lazily, indicating his cock, the stiff glistening length of it. _Carry on_ , his wave says, and Eminem wraps his hand gingerly around it and ducks again, then veers just as his lower lip is about to make contact.

"What, then?" he demands, fierce and quiet, not meeting Nick's eye.

Nick grins widely, then makes a low thoughtful humming noise in his throat. "Well, for starters?" he says, making his voice velvety and low: " _Suck_ it."

Eminem's lip curls, but - yeah. Sold. He goes right ahead, tilting his mouth against the very end of Nick's cock and opening to it, licking once and then sucking, long and thorough and firm.

"Fuck," Nick growls, despite himself, watching his cheeks hollow, and Eminem's hand tightens warningly on Nick's cock, pressing hard down.

"Fuck," Nick breathes again, as Eminem carries on sucking, same pressure and then a little harder, tiny pauses as he takes quick shallow breaths. "Okay," Nick manages, after a minute, "now go back to before, up and down, but sucking as well."

Eminem makes a noise in his throat that makes Nick flex against his tongue, and then he's doing it - struggling with it - stubborn clumsy thrusting of his mouth down over Nick's cock. He makes it three times before breaking off to catch his breath, then tries again, and Nick's past the point where squirming's not an issue, well into the land of blurred edges and brutally warm thoughts. _Tutoring_ him, jesus; teaching Eminem how to suck cock, guiding him, exactly how Nick would never treat a wide-eyed innocent, because innocents aren't appropriate as instruments for this much pleasure.

"Okay," Nick says, "that's good, that's-- it's nice, feels fucking excellent. But you gotta let me move some," he adds, in a rush. "I mean, to get me off fast, y'know?"

He holds his breath as Eminem gives his cock a slow nasty suck before pulling wetly back.

"I'm not stupid."

You're just on the floor of your dressing room, sucking me off, because you planned this? Yeah, that sounds positively intellectual. "No, no, for real," Nick murmurs, flexing his hips as gently as he can, "I'm not gonna-- I just gotta have a bit of movement," he says, hoping he sounds helpless instead of manipulatve. "C'mon, man. I'll do it for you."

"Just want this over with," Eminem growls quietly. "Fucking blue balls - and I'm gonna fuck your mouth if you like it or not," he adds, almost an undertone, and Nick thinks of the push of Eminem's cock against his knee and lets that smile show.

"I'm not setting you no boundaries," he says, like he's the one doing the favour here.

Eminem starts sucking him again, same rhythm, slight relaxation to his hand, and Nick makes low pleased noises and wishes he had a camera.

"Harder," he says softly, testing the water.

Eminem sucks harder, making a flash of heat race right through Nick's belly.

"Yeah, like that," Nick murmurs. "Mix it up a bit-- like, lick round, kiss it," and Eminem doesn't even glare at him this time, just pulls off and then bends his head back in.

Nick feels the damp press of his lips and breathes out hard. Oh, fuck yeah. Eminem kisses down to his knuckles, then back up, and Nick crooks his knee and watches the pressure of his thigh against Eminen's cock flicker through Eminem's expression. He grins when Eminem doesn't open his eyes: _Sure, baby, sure you're not enjoying this. Not at all._

"Yeah, like that," Nick says, his voice hoarser now. "Lick it, c'mon, just there-- get it wet," and Eminem's mouth opens, slipping sideways up the shaft, mouthing and sucking. " _Ah_. Yeah."

Eminem's cock's solid against his leg, rocking fractionally, and Nick's more than happy to pretend it's not there if it'll keep Eminem quiet...

"And now-- yeah," Nick says appreciatively, because Eminem uncurls his tight hand without being prompted, sinking down to pepper kisses round the base of Nick's cock. It feels like the skin's glowing after the pressure's been released, and the brush of Eminem's mouth spreads trickles of heat that zigzag and cross-hatch until Nick's trembling like he's sixteen again.

He grins silently, thinking of just how not ready he'd have been to do this at sixteen. Again: Justin? You're _very_ much appreciated.

The hand that Eminem's anchored on Nick's hip relaxes a fraction, then spreads, fingers curving towards Nick's stomach, palm fitting to his hipbone. Eminem laps slowly back up Nick's cock, eyes still closed but no longer drawn in a frown, and Justin, yeah, he'd approve of this a lot. He'd approve like someone on a diet watching someone else eat cherry pie. He'll probably make frustrated noises when Nick tells him, especially about the way Eminem's face's smoothed out, how the girlish tremble of his blond eyelashes makes this look like the very sluttiest sort of worship.

Justin, Nick thinks giddily, will probably really enjoy hearing about this next bit: "Hey, hey-- yeah, that, but-- fuck, man." He lets it sound as aroused as he feels, throaty and rushed. He takes his weight on one elbow and brushes his other hand over Eminem's head, fingers curling briefly against his ear, then his jaw, then falling to cover the hand on his hipbone.

Eminem's crystal-pale blue eyes half-open, suspicious but glazed, and _that_ is the picture Nick wants framed in the background of his next video, _fuck_. Nick brings his knee higher, watches the guilty heat flare through Eminem's eyes, and thinks it was probably a bad move to admit he's noticed that; doesn't matter though, his brain blurts, because his cock's in Eminem's _mouth_ , and he's not going to last much longer for all he can bullshit certain people into believing he might.

"No, don't stop," he mutters, dropping his gaze to the wet seam of Eminem's lips, moving his hips in tiny rhythmic pushes to watch the shining obscene shifts of skin. "But you, you gotta let me-- just for a second, I swear, but I can't--"

He moves his hand silently as he's talking, keeping his voice breathy and low, relieved at the discrete rocking of Eminem's cock against his leg even as he lays his palm feather-light on the back of Eminem's head.

The visceral image of it actually jolts him. "--Yeah, fuck," he says, suddenly fighting his hips' desperate urge to pump and keep pumping, then hisses sharply when Eminem bears down and sucks hard. " _Fuck_ ," Nick growls, letting his hand follow the dip of Eminem's head, follow and then press a little when it touches hair, feel the hard heat of Eminem's scalp and the way that at Nick's nudge he tries to take even more inside.

And oh--

 _Fuck_. Nick doesn't think he's a bad guy, right - ask pretty much anyone - but every man has a list of a few choice people he's always liked the idea of cramming his cock into, and Eminem's been in Nick's top three since forever. And watching this, moving his hips in quick shallow thrusts and watching Eminem squint as he's trying to suck yet more inside and jesus, having his hand there, braced at the back of Eminem's head, levering him the tiniest bit just to feel that _potential_ give--

It's not gonna be very damn long.

Nick bears down on his elbow, fingertips aching with pressing so hard into the floor, and strokes the back of Eminem's head a couple of times, firm strokes, fondling. In a flash, he remembers Justin's possessive fingers carding his own hair like this, and how he lifted his chin to sort of nuzzle his palm like a happy, needy feline; Eminem's not nuzzling him, far from it, but he twists his head a little, a blind return of pressure against Nick's hand that - at a cocksucking level - almost sets Nick's dick on fire.

He finds the base of Eminem's skull and holds it, feeling the power welling in his palm, slowing the movements of his hips until his strokes are steady but getting deeper, feeling the drag of Eminem's cock mirror him against his thigh. He breathes hard and thinks okay, _this_ is a proper porn blowjob, Eminem's face gleaming, Nick's cock dark and wide against the shine of Eminem's lips, the room seething with noises of wetness and forced air.

Eminem's mouth is _tight_ , is liquid-smooth and blood-hot and feels like it's accommodating more with every stroke. Nick's cock moves like an extension of his spine, part of the serpent flexing that his body's learnt precisely for occasions like this or onstage. He feels the first oscillating heat-splinters start to curl inwards, and his cock flexes hard and goes deeper than he'd planned.

Eminem makes a low noise and thrusts against Nick's leg. Nick shakily pretends not to notice, because if he doesn't he'll gloat. He starts to press his palm down harder, wanting his other hand there to touch the hollow of Eminem's cheek; a couple of lines appear between Eminem's eyebrows, and Nick knows that he should hope that it's pleasure not pain but actually, he sort of wouldn't mind either way. He gives Eminem a harder nudge, feeling the glancing of his cock off the back of his mouth, rocked in a silken clench that says Eminem noticed as well.

One, two, carry on with that, yeah. It's like dancing blindfolded, like trying to test and negotiate without ever letting on to what they're bargaining over, fighting the rising heat because he wants a photo finish and for all that this would make for fucking amazing screentime he wants _more_ now, more of this, _everything_.

The world pulses around him, shimmering. A particularly slow slide doesn't stop quite where Nick was expecting it, worrying at the wet curve into Eminem's throat, and Eminem makes another of those noises, making Nick wrench his hips back fast. Eminem follows him down, and Nick's hand can't help but brace itself at the back of Eminem's head, keeping his face close on the outstroke-- and then there's nowhere to put his dick except _up_.

Eminem makes a harsh, strangled noise, hips jerking hard, and Nick's still got nothing to do but push _into_ him, hissing helplessly when Eminem gulps and flinches-- and takes it, takes Nick's cock into his throat, shuddering around it. A gorgeous warm wetness is spreading over Nick's thigh, and Eminem's swallowing and twisting his head, his lips brushing wetly at the very base of Nick's cock and oh holy freakin'--

"-- _fuck_ ," Nick gasps, control melting like nuclear war just broke out. He adjusts his grip on the back of Eminem's head, shoving with his hips and dizzy with the tightness and then _dying_ , being annihilated through his cock, the sheer thrill of fucking Eminem's face taking him out, undercut by the bam-bam-bam of being swallowed slick and violently whole.

He loses sensation in his limbs as he comes, and crumples against the floor, gasping and cursing as Eminem wrenches away from him and gulps for air. In the midst of profound blank staccato pleasure, Nick thinks that for all a piece of wire jabs sharp, it can still be bent in two. His leg is wet as he straightens it, and then he's faintly aware of Eminem slamming through a door-- bathroom, he thinks. He forces his eyes open to give the ceiling a kinda hysterical grin.

"Fuck," he mouths, even as the agent part of his brain starts telling him to fuck off out of here as soon as poss.

Fuuuuuck, his cock agrees.

Nick lifts his hand, with effort, from the floor, and moves it the long slow journey to his crotch. It's hot and slippery, tingling under the clumsy passes of his hand; he he carefully squeezes his fist over his cock and then wipes it distractedly on the floor. Sorry, Em.

His gaze swings to the door. Gotta be bathroom. He has a feeling the state of the carpet is the last thing on that guy's mind.

He tries to remember what _he'd_ been thinking about when Justin left him, with kisses, that first time, and can't check the smile. It's over but they're a freakin' amazing set of memories, he thinks. And if--

The noise of the toilet flushing makes him jump to his feet, and then he steadies himself firmly with the wall because jesus, headrush. Bodyrush. His body is _molten_ , alive in every nerve. He fastens his pants clumsily, unable to wipe the grin off his face. He even remembers to check that Aaron's CD is still in his pocket, on his way through the holy-crap-not-actually-locked door, then realises he never got it signed. Return visit called for, by any chance?

He's a fucking _state_ , he realises, striding down the corridor, and breaks into an unsteady run. He lopes down the corridor towards his own dressing room as fast as his damp-noodle legs will carry him. He tries to imagine Eminem coming after him, grabbing that knife and surging for vengeance, but his brain just flashes back to that final crush of Eminem's mouth against his stomach, the spasm of Eminem's hips against Nick's thigh.

Fucking _A_.

He slows before his corridor, already lining Justin up on speed-dial, then grins as he locks the door behind him and strips off his pants while it rings.

"Y'ello," Justin answers, and Nick collapses into his chair, surrounded by the detritus of the decent performance earlier tonight and a possibly imaginary pulsing golden glow.

"Hey," he drawls, licking his lips, reaching over and cracking open a coke. His pulse starts to settle, and he thinks that he'll invite Justin down to the industry bar to discuss all the details - after a shower, naturally. He feels sticky all over, and reeks. It's great. "You are gonna love this, my man."

Justin laughs comfortably, and Nick glows some more and wonders if he'll get a line in the next single (Carter fucked my mouth but that's still better than his fucking song) or maybe just a nod in the liner notes, _I'll use teeth next time_.

He might start listening to the UK charts more often.


End file.
